House quieter this morning, although I know
Somewhere the river. Somewhere
You listening for currents, dark ghost
Swirling in the eel grass, taking shape. Then
Footsteps, a memory—ice breaking
In shallows, rivulets, still cold. Somewhere
—When was it?—we lived beside a river.
Water swift, too high, so the bank seemed
Dangerous, no edge or lip—
Listen to the river.
I know it's distant now,
The sound of a body splashing there
Alone, waiting. Who was it? Did we know?
Our eyes are cluttered, a lifetime's flotsam
Hoarded in a house we'll never leave.
The water is frozen but the ground is soft.
Pull me down as if I were—I am—
The stranger trembling in the weeds.
TODAY IN SLATE
Black people’s disdain for “proper English” and academic achievement is a myth.
Hong Kong’s Protesters Are Ridiculously Polite. That’s What Scares Beijing So Much.
The One Fact About Ebola That Should Calm You: It Spreads Slowly
How White Boy Rick, a legendary Detroit cocaine dealer, helped the FBI uncover brazen police corruption.
A Jaw-Dropping Political Ad Aimed at Young Women, Apparently
How Even an Old Hipster Can Age Gracefully
On their new albums, Leonard Cohen, Robert Plant, and Loudon Wainwright III show three ways.